Comment tu dis Objectivism?
by Claro3
Summary: A nonlinear love story of... nonlinear proportions. Rated for much, much later, though that statement defies the nonlinear clause, I know. Flames, of course, welcome. BrenDen
1. 66 Rain

Sooo... Umm... Yeah. Please only thow things with round edges. I know asking you to only throw soft items is a little beyond the pale.

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. That includes concepts and plot twists; half are them are from _The Fountainhead. _So, no, when that comes up... It's not your imagination.

Non-linear means just that. No chronological clues unless I really can't help it. Don't blink, you _will _miss it. Yes, I've shamelessly filched the fanfic 100 prompts. No, the numbers of the prompts are not related to the order of events in the story.

* * *

66 Rain 

He doesn't board a plane. He waits in the terminal until, finally, flight 636 from London disembarks. From her vantage point in the café, Brenda has a good view of him.

Brenda also has a good view of the person he's there to meet.

The truth is that Brenda notices the girl before Dutton greets her.

She is young and very, very beautiful, with a lithe body, long dark hair and a wide, full mouth. There is something familiar about her face, but Brenda can't place it. Brenda recalls Fritz's old comments about the "real stepford wives" and draws a hasty comparison to the tall brunette. Then Brenda corrects it. There is nothing vacant about this girl. Things don't happen in her life without permission. She is not a "wife of," she can't be tied to anyone.

She walks slower than the rest of the disembarking crowd. She wears severe clothing, a starched white shirt with a dramatic collar, a tight black pencil skirt, tall spiky heels. Everything accentuates the stick-like lines of her long body. She walks with, there's no other word for it, gravitas. She is self-possessed, imposing even. When she stops and looks about her it is a thoughtful action, not a lost one.

Dutton, too, is very still as he watches her. When they see each other, Brenda notes, there is a moment of hesitation. Then, a flurry of motion. The girl practically flies into his outstretches arms; her whole body is involved in the motion. She parts those wide lips in a wide smile. Her eyebrows display impressive dexterity. Even her nose wiggles a bit.

Dutton and the girl embrace for a long moment, a rib-crushing hug. When they pull away from one another, it is only far enough to talk face-to-face rather than ear-to-ear, and neither takes their arms off the other. There is a soft look between them, something that doesn't seem properly carnal to Brenda, who has already decided to cast the brunette in the role of Dutton's latest plaything.

It's the look of two people who have known each other a long time comparing the real person to their mental image.

The girl's lush red lips move a great deal when she speaks. Whatever she says, this lip-reader's wet dream, it must be funny, because they both laugh again. Dutton steps away from her, leaving just one arm around her waist. She leaves an arm around him, as well. He gestures at her bags and says something that makes the girl howl with laughter; it's an inside-joke laugh and the girl's whole body goes into it. Her knees bend, her mouth stretches, her shoulders shake, her head snaps as far back as Brenda has ever seen a living person's do.

A few more words, then Dutton kisses her.

It's not the kiss Brenda expects to see. The brunette inclines her face towards him and he plants his lips on her forehead, just next to her temple. It's a gentle a deeply affectionate gesture.

After the kiss, Dutton takes hold of her carry-on, and the girl takes her long coat and her purse and they set off.

They still have one another about the waist. The girl rests her head on Dutton's shoulder as they walk. There is more swagger to Dutton's step than usual.

Brenda leaves forty dollars on the table and slips into the terminal. She follows them past baggage claim (they don't stop), through immigration (they get through fast enough) and almost to the curb.

They stop, the girl hunts in her purse. Brenda is close enough now to hear them.

"-hard to get by in London without one."

She pulls out an umbrella.

For the first time, Brenda looks out a window. There will be no more following them today. In a little summer dress with a tiny clutch purse, Brenda is not equipped to walk through that kind of weather.

* * *

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I should make a note of this: flames will be welcomed with open arms. You need to keep warm somehow in the frozen wastes.


	2. 30 Death

And it continues, much like the bottlenecking associated with a horrid car crash.

* * *

* * *

30 Death

"You know it's the right thing, Brenda."

"I know…. I know, it's just..."

"C'mon, you've got to get it together. The vet's going to come back here any minute."

"I know."

"If this is too much for you, you can wait outside."

"No."

"I think maybe you should."

She looks at him, a little startled. He is always, always looking after her. Looking out for her. It's good of him, sweet of him. But sometimes there is something in his tone that bothers her.

She doesn't want to make this a fight.

"Okay."

* * *

The ride back home is very, very quiet. He's talked her into mass cremation, so they won't get the ashes back. Everything he's said is perfectly true. She has no reason to resent any of it. 

Then again, she's always been prey to her emotions.

It doesn't matter to her that they don't have anywhere to keep them. It doesn't matter to her that individual cremation is far more expensive. It doesn't matter to her that it's just a cat, after all, they don't live very long and, yes, they can get another one.

All that really matters is that Kitty is gone. She'd walked out into that waiting room and now she'll never see her beloved, irritating, smelly, gender-bending cat again.

* * *

She hasn't cried yet. She doesn't know why. She's been a bit tetchy with Fritz, and he's kindly let it slide. 

Well, he's let it slide, and that is kind of him. As for whether or not he's done it in a kindly way… That dull, annoyed _look _he gets, that _'Brenda, stop being absurd' _look, it hurts. It's justified, yes. It's kinder than any comment. But it still hurts.

* * *

"The last place Mr. Franklin was seen was Maria Hiller's birthday party." 

"And do we have the guest list?"

"Yes."

"Anyone of interest?"

"Not really. We're just going through the list, getting alibis. But I thought you might like to get this one yourself."

She looks down at the file. "Yes, I would. Thank you, Lt. Flynn."

* * *

"Mrs. Howard, what a pleasure." 

He's the same as ever, she sees. "Oh, I'm sure it is. Where were you last Friday night?"

That chesire grin. "Before or after Mrs. Hiller's party?"

"_After."_

"Mmm. Yes. I was with Mrs. Hiller." Still that wicked grin. A little less mysterious now, though. He is laughing at her. Laughing at the way she trails after him, picking up the list of his bad behaviors like filthy socks. She swallows, a faint hint of bile dancing on the back of her tongue. She doesn't really feel up to this.

"And will Mrs. Hiller be able to _confirm_ this?"

A very droll chuckle. "I suspect so."

It's a close thing, but she manages not to slap the smugness off his face. He hasn't aged as much as she thinks he should have. She wonders if he goes to a surgeon to keep it that way. She doesn't think so. He's too vain, in a backwards sort of way. She thinks there's a cat-like aspect to his agelessness.

Something must show in her face, because his grin fades.

"You seem a bit off, Mrs. Howard. Is something wrong?"

"You mean aside from a man being shot in the face?"

He looks very serious now. "Yes. Aside from that."

She hitches her oversized bag back onto her shoulder. "Nothing that's any of your concern, Mr. Dutton." He is still looking at her with that calm, serious face. Cool in once respect and warm in another.

"I see." His voice is… impossibly neutral. Nothing from him for what feels like a long minute. Then, a sigh. "I am sorry, Mrs. Howard, not be able to help you. I do hope you get your man."

Then he does something that makes her heart skip unhappily. He lays a hand on her shoulder for a fleeting moment. Not a pat, not a grasp- just a brief pressure.

* * *

She walks a little stiffly when she leaves him, as if the ground were rolling beneath her. In the car, she has to put her head in her hands. For the first time since the vet's office, she feels the stinging heat of tears. 

She, too, is very sorry. She wishes she has Kitty's ashes, so she can say it aloud.

* * *

* * *

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Flames welcome, since I have to no coat to keep the cold internet winds at bay.


	3. 52 Fire

Remember the non-linear bit? Also a touch of cross-over.

* * *

52 Fire 

The newscaster adopts a more serious tone.

"In other news, charges of felony, first-degree arson have been filed against model Denelle Weller, owner of the DED couture line. She is represented by a team from the firm of Crane, Poole & Schmidt. Neither Miss Weller nor any of her relatives or representatives could be reached for comment. Prosecutor Thomas Yates will has been quoted as saying 'the city of Los Angeles will not allow wealth or social connection to protect criminals from having to take responsibility for their actions. Miss Weller will be treated like any other defendant.' He called suggestions that he was overzealous in his prosecution of Miss Weller as part of a crusade against her family 'ludicrous and unfounded.'

"When asked about Miss Weller's indictment, Dominick Dunne said 'I've met Miss Weller on a few occasions, and I feel that her best option would be an affirmative defense claiming mental defect. I highly doubt, however, that her father will allow that.'

"Miss Weller herself is still being treated for injuries related to the Gates Gallery fire."

* * *

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Please note: I like fire. That means flames.


	4. 23 Lovers

Still bottlenecking.

Poor Brenda. The cosmos can really bitchslap a girl sometimes.

* * *

23. Lovers

They're caught in the doorway together. For a brief moment neither moves. Then, he takes her by the elbow and leans in close.

Surprise narrows her perception. It's the closest she's been to any man since… Well, since months before the divorce. The closest she's been to anyone, really, in almost two years.

She can feel his fingers around her arm, a light touch but a firm one. She feels his unshaven cheek against her own, the gentle pressure of lips near the curve of her jaw. She smells his cologne, something clean and mellow. She feels his breath, hot against the edge of her ear.

She feels small next to him. She can sense the curve in his body, the stoop in his shoulders, which are needed to bring his face close to hers.

Then it's over. He pulls away from her, leaving her a little dizzy and very cold. He takes his hand off her arm, his left hand, with that gold ring on the fourth finger. How is it his marriage survived while her fell apart so painfully?

He smiles thinly. "It's poisonous, you know."

"What is?"

He glances upwards and she follows his gaze. Someone has tied a sprig of mistletoe to the lintel.

She looks at him again. He is still smiling thinly. His hands are shoved into his pockets. She thinks she ought to say something, but can't think of what. He shrugs. "Happy new year, Miss Johnson."

* * *

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	5. 87 Life

No Brenda today, folks. Just some backstory. Guess what? You've met this girl before! The little one. Lorraine not so much. Unless you're up on the crossover stuff.

So, technically it's an update. It WILL NOT be a month until the next one.

Kira, with the madd specific and faithful reviews, thank you! No breakage here, though.

Sera, sorry if you can't get high off his particular chapter. The proper "crack!otp" bits will return soon.

Silent readers... The stats reveal you... The hits make me happy! The silence does not. Don't be lame! ...Does saying that make me lame? I fear perhaps it does.

To the storycave!

* * *

87 Life 

He's getting ready to leave, saying a few final words to Lorraine, arranging his next visit. The small figure in the door catches his attention, unexpectedly. What catches him off guard isn't her presence- she lives here, after all- but how attentive he is to it. It puts him off a bit- at least, that's what he thinks the slightly seasick, latently aggressive feeling is.

"Hey, sweet-pea, is something wrong?" The nickname came early and easily, and she hasn't objected yet. But somehow talking to her still feels obligatory.

She shakes her head. Then, she mumbles something. He looks at Lorraine, who purses her lips. He gives the woman a nasty, quiet snarl before arranging his face into something resembling passivity and approaching the small figure in the hall door.

"What is it, sweet-pea?" She does that thing, that 'I don't want to say it out loud' dance children have. Then, she extends an arm, pudgy hand balled into a fist. He glances back, but Lorraine offers no assistance. She merely raises her dramatic brows. He turns to the girl. "What's that, sweet-pea?" The little fist rotates and the fingers open. A silver ring lies in her palm.

"For you." She's so very, very shy. Every little bit of expressiveness has to be pulled from her like chicken teeth. Getting her to talk in English is the worst.

"For me?"

"Uh."

He thinks that's some sort of affirmation. "Well… thank you." He takes it and tries to put it on the ring finger of his right hand. It's too large, so he tries the second finger; fails. It fits his index finger well enough. "It's lovely." The words feel… dull. Saying them is dull. Mostly, he's confused. He has no idea if accepting it was the right thing, he has no idea why she's given it to him. It's condescending, but he asks anyway. "May ask what the occasion is?"

"So you won't forget me when you go away."

It hits him then.

He's never had the wind knocked out of him like this. The room spins. He feels like his heart and his lungs and his stomach are caught in a vice. He feels as if he's only seeing the little girl in 3D for the first time. Desperate, dizzy, he looks at Lorraine again.

The look on her face isn't a smirk, it's too soft, but it's close. She knew (knew, god damn her!) and she let him walk right into it without warning. He kneels in front of the girl, and he's still taller than she is.

"Do you think I'm going to forget you?" She moves her head, sort of yes, sort of no. He really can't seem to take a proper breath. He puts his hands on her shoulders and it hits him again, hard, just how tiny and delicate she is, how vulnerable. A list of all the things that could befall her and another list of all the things he ought to do for her cascade through his brain. A nasty little refrain dances in his ears: _and where were you for the last five years?_

"Sweet-pea, I will not forget you." The words don't feel obligatory or condescending now. She gives him one of her shy little looks and his heart twists further. Her eyes are so big and dark in that pale little face… He gives her a little shake. "Denelle, I will _not _forget you. Ever. Do you hear me, sweet-pea?"

She makes a little motion with her shoulders- he lets her shrug off his hands. Then, he takes her hands (miniature hands, really, a doll's hands) in his own. "Sweet-pea, listen to me. I am not just going to go away and disappear, alright? I am going to call you _every day. _I am going to visit you every vacation you have. I am going to be here for your birthday ever year. Every one." He can see it's still not enough. The pressure in his chest won't go away. "Sweet-pea, look at me." She does. "I will never, ever take this ring off. I will think of you every time it look at it. I promise. Okay?"

She nods. He takes a moment to look at her. He can already see she'll have Lorraine's brows, Lorraine's cheeks, Lorraine's jaw, Lorraine's mouth. But she has his nose, his eyes. He decides to see himself in her ears, too, for good measure. Just to try and even the score a little. Seeing parts of himself in her only makes the pressure in his chest worse. Compulsively, he embraces her. She stands it for a little while, then wriggles, fidgety. He lets her go and it's more painful than he would have thought possible.

"You promise to visit every holiday?"

"Every one."

"And every birthday?"

"Yes."

"And to spend summers with me?"

He hesitates, looks at Lorraine, who nods. He pinches Denell's cheek, makes a mental note never to do it again. "I promise."

She grins- it really is her mother's smile already- and throws her arms around his neck. He holds her close. She moves her head and he feels tiny lips on his cheek. For the first time in a long time, he feels as if he might cry. She speaks, a little voice putting little words in his ear. "Merci beaucoup, papa."

He can't help but laugh a little. She's far less reserved with her French. "De rien, ma cherie."

Then she wiggles out his grasp and flounces off down the hall; already onto to the next thing in her mind.

He gives himself a moment before returning to Lorraine. He looks at her quizzically, rubbing his chest. She shakes her head.

"It won't ever go away. But it does start to feel right, after a while."

"I feel awful. All this time…"

"Dennis. You've been a terrible ass."

"So kind of you to spare me the blunt truth of it."

She places a long, thin hand on his shoulder. "I know how you love honesty."

He hesitates. The thought is barely formed in his mind; it's more a collection of half-congealed memories and opinions than a real statement. "Lorraine, I don't want… I don't think…"

"You don't want her to grow up the way you did."

"No."

"Mmm, and I don't want her to grow up the way I did."

Lorraine is still as beautiful as when he first saw her. But he doesn't want to kiss her. "I suppose we should… Get… M…." He can't say the word.

"Marriage wasn't my next idea. I don't want to set that kind of example for her."

"So…?"

"So it'll be a bit of work, making sure she has a reasonable sort of life."

* * *

Click a button, adopt a button, make a button happy. 

It's cold out here around Christmas time. Flames will be used to warm my toes and toast... uh... toast. So... yeah, they're welcome.


	6. 4 Insides

What would Brenda do without Sergeant David Gabriel?

Also, beware of other people's houses. You never know what you'll find in locked rooms.

No Brenda/Dennis interaction yet. But it's on its way. I _promise._

* * *

4 Insides

The contents of the room with the eight-digit code just about takes her breath away.

It's a massive room with dark walls and bright floodlights and… And art. Every imaginable kind of art. Photographs, watercolors, oil paintings, marble statues, strange creations of rusted wire and bright yarn.

It takes her a long while to decipher the single unifying factor. Pieces are placed in an order that at first seems random.

When she sees it, it's as stunning at the art itself. It's wondrous to her that someone would think to do it. That he, of all people, would be capable of thinking it. The marvelous idea is this: there _is _no arrangement.

Every piece is an experience. It's so clear to her, as someone trained to see what lurks beneath a person's surface, that no single item here was created with anything less than the full energy of the creator. They've all got the kind of singular, passionate intensity that only can come from someone consumed by their purpose. Being in that room… It's cathartic. It's like throwing a temper tantrum and weeping and laughing until it hurts, all at once. And all one has to do is look around.

Brenda knows how the room will leave her feeling; she'll walk out drained, but not tired.

Across the gallery, Gabriel whistles. "I can see why he wants to keep this private."

"Why is that, Sergeant?"

"It's part of him. Not part of his public face, but part of _him. _I mean, if you'd gone to all the trouble of picking all these, making this room for them, keeping them for yourself… I mean, if I did that, I wouldn't want to let just anybody barge in on it."

"No. So, who would you let in? What kind of person would you want to see this most private side of you?"

"Someone… important. Someone I thought might understand. Someone…"

"Somebody you thought you could love?" They look at each other, a long moment of silence. It's been said now, what they both sort of knew, and nothing can erase it.

"I can talk to him for you…"

Brenda feels the weight of Fritz's ring, a reminder that she is loved already, well and truly, by a good man, and feels a little braver for it. "No, Sergeant. I think I should."

* * *

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	7. 67 Snow

Oh, Denelle, how did your mother survive you?

* * *

"It's hot." Denelle rarely complains, but this is a major exception. She's been bitching (that really is the only word for it) for hours. "It's hot and it's sticky and I don't like it! We're in LA, there is no snow here. Christmas in LA does not mean snow. Tell this stylist that he's an idiot." 

"Denelle-"

"Suffering for my art, Julian, is one thing. Suffering for someone else's stupidity is quite another. Please fix this, darling. Please."

"I can't."

"You can. Julian, you can, you can! You're the photographer… You're _the _photographer. You're Julian Jones, everyone wants you to shoot for them, and you chose this. You chose this company! You shouldn't have to work with their stylist. You should be making all the creative decisions. You should be telling them where they should be taking their brand, what their image should be. You have to stop knuckling under."

"I'm not knuckling under." He smiles at her, his teeth are very white against the deep, warm brown of his skin. "You, Denelle soon-to-be Mrs. Jones, have to stop telling me what to do. You look amazing, this shoot is almost over, and it's going to look amazing. You know it will. You, who have spent so much of your life perfecting your ability to present any image, in any circumstance… You can do this. For me."

"I can't do it for you, Julian."

He puts a slim hand on her neck. "Then do it _with _me." 

She purses her lips, leans into his touch. "With you. I suppose I could do that."

* * *

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	8. 85 She

"Fire" should start to make more sense.

Brenda has so many problems in her life. How does she manage?

* * *

Brenda doesn't need to ask. She sees Denelle in the woman clearly enough.

Lorraine has a dangerous sort of quiet dignity, a sensuality that has been honed and weaponized in a way that Brenda both envies and fears. She is older than Brenda expected. She's older, Brenda sees at a glance, than Dennis. She wonders what drew Lorraine to him. The reverse she doesn't wonder about.

Dutton and Lorraine. Brenda watches them move together. She watches they way they touch lightly, hand to hand, hand to shoulder, hand to hip. The reserved kiss they exchange. The comfortable, slightly charged way they stand together. Brenda feels overheated. _Why don't they just hold up a sign saying "we had really great sex"?, _she wonders bitterly.

Lately, Fritz has been sleeping on the couch.

"Miss Weller."

"And you are?" It's so imperious, so cool and self-assured. It's like being slapped; but not exactly on the face.

"Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson." It feels good to use her own name again. Her mother's whispers had prompted her to take Fritz's, and she had regretted it every time the alien syllables had passed her lips.

"I see. You're the woman who had armed men placed in my daughter's hospital room."

Brenda feels a chill. "Your daughter is under suicide watch, Miss Weller, and-"

"My daughter is not suicidal."

"Your daughter tried to destroy a building, and immolate herself."

"Denelle had no such intentions," snaps Dennis.

Lorraine brushes one of her long hands across the back of his neck. "I'm sure Miss Johnson will see that in time," she murmurs. "Miss Johnson, I believe you are here to attempt to question my daughter?"

"Yes."

"Then you had best save a little time and leave. Her lawyers will be more than happy to talk to you, at your office."

"I'm afraid-"

"I'm afraid you can't speak with her, it's as simple as that. She is heavily sedated and both her doctors and, according to this," Lorraine produces a document attached to heavy blue paper, "the court system of L.A., believe that it would be best if she remained undisturbed."

Brenda takes the court order, reads it. She feels herself blush. "I see. I see."

"Do you?" Lorraine's voice is mild, but the undercurrents are not.

Brenda merely looks at her. Dennis coughs.

"Well, Miss Johnson," he says, voice a little brighter than it should be, " I'm sure we'll see you again soon enough."

"I'm sure you will," Brenda snaps. In the car on the way home, she keeps thinking of better things to have said.

She keeps seeing the way Dennis and Lorraine look at one another.

She keeps blushing.

* * *

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	9. 41 Shapes

Yay, new chappie! Some things are starting to draw together... but not really.

I guess no one ever taught Denelle not to "throw away" stuff she shouldn't let the police see...

* * *

Denelle won't look at her.

It's not so much avoidance, or refusal, as it is the girl merely being far more interested in her "book."

"Why are you doing that now?"

"I've just switched to a new agency. I thought it was as good a time as ever to reconsider what I have in here."

"Switched to a new agency?"

"Yes. I was working with Ford Models."

"And who are you working with now?"

"Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency."

Brenda rubs her forehead. The seriousness with which this girl approaches… The _lack_ of seriousness with which she treats… Brenda tries to bring Denelle back to the topic at hand. "Miss Weller, where were you last Friday?"

"When?" She flips a page, huffs.

"Between 1 AM and 5 AM."

"Sleeping, then getting ready for work; I had a nine hour shoot with MAC. Yes, I was at Maria's party. Yes, I saw Jake." She takes a photo out of the book, tosses it on to the table. "Yes, we spoke… He hit on me. I told him to fuck himself. I spent most of my time with my father, yes he will confirm that, and them I went home. At 11:00."

"Did you go home alone?"

The question, the insinuation, gets Denelle's attention. She looks up, hatred stamped deeply on her face. "Yes." It's a foul, grinding sound.

Brenda is taken by surprise. Sex is a tetchy subject for her as well as her father, then. "So… You went home alone. Who's to say you didn't find Mr. Franklin and kill him?"

The girl closes her book, holds Brenda's gaze. "No one. May I go?"

"No, you may not. You see, my dear, you are a suspect. In a-"

"Murder, I am aware."

Brenda leans forward. "Mr. Franklin and your father were engaged in a vicious lawsuit. Your father's position in the company was in danger, the future of that company was in danger. If you thought you were protecting him, or his company, and you're willing to be open about that, this doesn't have to be so hard on you."

The silence that follows reminds Brenda of being deep underwater. Then, it breaks. Quietly.

"I am no longer willing to sit here and listen to your tripe. If want to keep me against my will, I suggest you arrest me. Good day, Mrs. Howard." With that, Denelle unfolds her long body from the chair, tucks her book under her arm, and leaves with the same tightly controlled grace she displayed at their first meeting.

After she leaves, Brenda picks up the picture left on the table. It's Denelle, not too much younger than she is now, probably in her late teens, in front of a dull gray backdrop, in a dress that looks likes a bad geometry class.

She was right to leave it behind. It doesn't show her to best advantage.

Brenda turns it over. A nice, blocky script is stretched over the page. _You should never look this dull again. I'd never let people see you like this. Think about it! – J.J._

Brenda frowns. "J.J.?"

* * *

"J. J.; probably Julian Jones," says Tao, "photographer, graduated from F.I.T., best known for his work with John Galliano and Tom Ford. Published an article in Vogue about work ethic in the arts. He's in L.A." 

"Where?"

"He's supposed to be doing a shoot at The Abbey, today, with JDMA and Hardcore Watches."

"JDMA? Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency?"

"Uh… Yeah."

"Denelle works with them… Let's go see what 'J.J.' wanted her to 'think about,' shall we?"

* * *

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	10. 38 Touch

Long time no chappie, eh? Well, here's another one. Hearkens mostly to prompts... Well, the non-linear part would stop being fun if I actually told you!

Dutton clearly has not given up alcohol. Amphetamines, maybe, and painkillers, and whatever else Deanna "won't share," but not Johnnie Walker Red Label; heaven forfend he deal with Brenda and her search warrants sans Scotch Whiskey... Although this may be indicative of rather more deep-seated mental _wrongness_. Oh, crazy rich bastards- what fun would fiction be without you?

* * *

Dutton drains his glass and pours another. Sgt. Gabriel makes another attempt to reason with him.

"Mr. Dutton-"

"I heard you the first time."

"We do have a warrant."

"And I am content to ignore it." He gives a little laugh, chokes, breathes, takes another sip. "I didn't mean for that to rhyme."

"You can give us the combination, or we can break in. Those are your choices."

Dutton considers the glass. Then the bottle. "And who is going to examine this room of mine?"

"The… The LAPD."

"Dutton finishes the glass, doesn't refill it. "No." He pours. "What about you?"

"Pardon me?"

"Will you be searching that room?"

"Uh-"

"You and Chief Johnson."

Her heels announce her before her voice. "Him and me what?"

Dutton's face brightens a bit when she joins them. "Chief Johnson! Drink? It's not up to _my _usual standard, but-"

She curls her lip. "No, thank you. Sgt. Gabriel and me _what?"_

"I was just going to propose that I give you the combination to my vault provided only you and Mr. Gabriel search it."

"And why on earth would I agree to that?"

Dutton shrugs. "No reason, I suppose. I just thought I'd try."

"To manipulate my investigation?"

"Yes."

She stares at him, dumbfounded. "I cannot believe you-"

"Just said that. I know," he waves his hand absently, "I know, neither can I. Are you sure you don't want a drink? No? Suit yourself." He takes another large swig, refills the glass. "Well, let me rephrase; I'm just trying to give myself a little more control over what happens to my own life. You've got most of that already. I'm trying get a little power in place of my long-vanished privacy."

She frowns at him, says: "Alright."

He raises his eyebrows. "You're _agreeing_?"

"Yes."

He doesn't speak or move.

"Mr. Dutton," Gabriel says, "we do need that pass-code."

"Of course… Shall I write it down? It is eight digits."

"No, Mr. Dutton, I'm sure I can remember it."

He gives her a wry smile. The wrongness of it doesn't register with her. "You know, I'm sure you can. Zero, seven, zero, three, one, nine, six, seven."

"Thank you. And I really would advise you not to finish that bottle- I think you've had enough already."

Gabriel leads her to the room. The buttons are smooth and cool beneath her fingertips, giving way gracefully, ever so sightly, to the force of her touch.

When she presses her finger against the nine, she realizes with a jolt just exactly what the pass-code is.

She thinks, hollowly, that he has violated her with these digits. He has stolen from her. He has stolen her.

07031967. July. The third. Nineteen sixty-seven.

Her birthday.

* * *

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	11. 60 Drink

He brought a bottle of merlot to her as a sort of peace offering and by now they're both a little drunk. The reams of paper on the desk before them have become fairly unintelligible. She's going to have to call her husband and have him come pick her up pretty soon. Sweet Fritz, she knows he'll do it. She'll have to endure a snippy comment or two, but he's entitled.

She looks across the table at Thomas Yates for a minute, his face redder than usual in the lamplight.

"Do you ever think about him?"

He looks up. "De- uh- Dennis Dutton? What, you mean when I'm not technically-"

"Yes, I mean when you're not actually investigating him."

"All the time."

She laughs. "Brenda and Tom, the incredible crusading duo."

"You're even less funny than usual when you've been drinking."

"And you're even more of a smarmy bastard." She looks down into her glass. "Why is it so hard to shake him off?"

"It's… I think it's just that… We always want to stick a stake through their hearts. He just keeps slipping out of reach. So we have to keep hunting. We have to get the bastard and the longer we keep trying…"

"You start to feel like you're living with him-"

"Like you know him-"

"Like he knows you."

Yates frowns at her. "Especially like that. That's the worst. Every time he looks at you, like he's laughing. Nothing that comes out of your mouth surprises him. He's just bored with everything you do."

"And if it doesn't bore him, it just makes him interested in you." She takes another sip of the wine.

"What?"

"Like, he starts trying to talk to you. Sends you presents."

"He's never sent me a present." Yates sounds a little jealous.

She gives him a slightly embarrassed look.

"We're sick, aren't we?" He asks.

She nods, hiccups. "At least we're not sick on our own."


End file.
